


Two Singers Come Calling

by the_seaworthy_muffin



Category: Merlin (TV), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, First Meetings, Gen, Magic, Merlin-centric (Merlin), Songs of Power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29724693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_seaworthy_muffin/pseuds/the_seaworthy_muffin
Summary: Merlin has some help in defeating the sorceress Mary Collins, and makes a new friend.He doesn’t know that his new friend is actually an immortal elf.Well, details, details, right?Or: Merlin meets Maglor. (a.k.a. The MerlinxSilm crossover that is as Niche as Hell.) *Can be read without prior knowledge of The Silmarillion!*
Comments: 18
Kudos: 22





	Two Singers Come Calling

**Author's Note:**

> The Merlin x Silm. crossover I mentioned over on tumblr! Though, as mentioned in the summary, PRIOR KNOWLEDGE OF THE SILMARILLION ISN'T NECESSARY. While having read it may make reading this a bit more interesting, all you need to know to understand the plot is that Merlin makes a new friend (and that he happens to be an immortal elf with a real knack for singing). :D  
> This is actually as niche as hell (or at least, I think so; I've never quite seen anything like it...) and I'll probably be ecstatic if this gets so much as a single kudos, but I really enjoyed writing it, and, well- that's what really matters, yes? :)

Merlin nearly comes to dislike Lady Helen of Mora before she’s ever set foot in Camelot. This is in no small part because of the sheer fuss news of her arrival raises.

Merlin had never known that singers could rise to such levels of celebrity. From the look on some of the noble’s faces as they had discussed her arrival, she could have been the Goddess’s gift to mankind. They’d discussed _notes_ and _harmony_ and _progression_ , all of which had flown right out of Merlin’s other ear no sooner than they had entered his head.

Of course Merlin has seen singers, too. Ealdor isn’t that isolated from the rest of the world, and there had been a traveling minstrel troupe that’d had a special soft spot for Ealdor’s Beltane festivities. Music is pleasant to listen to, Merlin will give them that much; but, well, all this frenzy… it’s bordering on ridiculous, is what.

All the castle is abuzz, and cook’s ladle is both freer and more lethal than ever. Merlin swears she’d almost drawn blood the last time she’d mistaken him for a kitchen-boy trying to steal sweet cakes from the kitchens. (It had been an errand for Gaius.) So, well, if Merlin revels in secretly plotting to cover the lovely lady in blotchy red itches as soon as she sets foot in her chambers-

Of course Merlin won’t, because Gaius will have his head if the pyre doesn’t. But there’s no blame in imagining, is there? Merlin knows there are probably some things that are out of his magic’s reach, but they aren’t many. And Merlin knows that he can most certainly pull off this particular stunt- he’d actually done it once, to a girl who had been particularly mean to Will when turning down his shy offer to dance with her at Samhain. In retrospect, it had been childish and silly, but it’s a small comfort that Merlin knows it can be done.

So, if Merlin has that extra spring in his steps as he thinks of it, a few instances of misplaced snickering, well… No-one need be any wiser. It’s not like the Lady’s arrival has much to do with Merlin, anyway.

Merlin is proven wrong on that a lot sooner than he’d imagined.

🎻

Merlin had been bartering herbs for Gaius when the stranger turns up.

“The yarrow is stale,” someone comments from next to him. He has a voice one could listen to for hours on end: soft, melodious, and lilting with some far-away accent. “I wouldn’t pay three coin for that.”

The voice itself is pleasant, but a burst of icy cold jolts up Merlin’s spine. The feeling is gone before Merlin can really register it, but what Merlin had felt is both alien and unforgettable.

Burnished starlight, the salty whip of the sea, a song, curling, yearning, ancient, so unbearably sad…

The feeling of largeness, not of size, but as if it hearing an echo from a world long faded away*.

Merlin turns, instantly wary. Magic, unfortunately, for all its wonder, is not something that can be celebrated here. Merlin learnt that lesson the hard way. It isn’t easy to forget having watched a man burn at the pyre, after all. Especially if that particular scene is his first memory of the city.

“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” Merlin comments offhandedly. He keeps his eyes narrowed. A soft tinkling laugh sounds from beside him, and a drape of a dark cloak brushes against him as the stranger bends forward to finger a sprig of thyme. He straightens, and Merlin is treated to a view of the most singularly lovely face he has ever had the chance to behold.

The stranger has long dark hair, tied loosely back in the style that had been fashionable in Gaius’ time. His skin is so pale it almost seems an illusion, with high, sweeping cheekbones and a sweet mouth. There’s something a stern about the arch of his brows, and solemn grey eyes smile back at him. Merlin feels something brush at the edges of his magic and instinctively curls it close to his body.

“Don’t look at me so,” the stranger says, holding his hands up in the universal sign for peace. “I mean you no harm. I simply meant to ask the way to the castle.” His foreign accent is thicker than it had been.

The herb-seller, an old, yellowed man with frown lines on his forehead and one rheumy eye, stabs one bony finger towards the castle in the distance.

“Don’t you go asking directions for the castle when you’re practically _in_ it- straight that way, d’you see? And stop standing here chasing customers away if all you’re going to do is bicker about prices and stare at each other like green lads in love!” he drops his head back towards where he’d been separating dried herbs into piles to be sold. “The young these days…” he mutters.

The stranger stands still for a moment before busting out into loud, bell-like laughter. He nearly bends over in half, and tears cling to the edges of his eyes. His cloak shifts enough for Merlin to make out the shape of a small hand-harp strapped to his back.

He then straightens, shifting the grip on the small travelling satchel he carries. His grey eyes are clear and surprisingly shrewd. “I have the feeling we may be meeting soon,” he comments, turning towards Merlin.

_I really hope not,_ Merlin thinks as he makes his way back towards the castle. He has the feeling that the man will make his headache from the whole Lady Helen fiasco very much worse. And his feelings are rarely wrong.

What a strange man. What’s so funny about _young_ anyway?

🎻

Merlin means to bring the issue up with Gaius. He really does.

He isn’t sure _what_ exactly the stranger was, but Merlin’s magic is practically an extension of him, and he knows what he sensed. The brine of the sea. Starlight. Pain. Loneliness. Something ancient and _other_. Merlin doesn’t know if the stranger was some sort of magical creature posing as human, or some special type of sorcerer. To be honest, he couldn’t care less about what magic happens in Camelot. But he does care when it concerns him, because, oh, let’s see, Merlin doesn’t much fancy his head on a stake or his body on a pyre.

Public executions do have a way with staying with people, after all.

But Gaius is just so _busy_. There’s a whole arsenal of special neck-tinctures that the Lady had apparently requested. They are thick and yellow and use an inordinate amount of honey; and, apparently, they serve to lessen neck pains. Merlin had never known that singing was such a painful endeavor. Gaius has Merlin running to and fro for honey the whole afternoon, and Merlin almost resorts to using magic to levitate the lot up to Gaius’ chambers near the end. He only manages to catch himself at the last second.

On top of that, there’s all those special health drinks the nobles are requesting. Merlin doesn’t know why exactly they’re needing them when it’s the Lady who’s travelling, not them. But apparently being a noble means that their constitutions are so frail that they need fortification for the excitement of meeting a famed singer. (Or they just revel in being giant prats, like certain princes Merlin shan’t mention.) He hadn’t run into the golden prat since his first day in Camelot, and he’s thanked the goddess countless times for that.

So Merlin can’t really be blamed for the mysterious stranger having slipped his mind.

But then the Lady arrives, and her maidservant dies, all in short order.

And Merlin begins to think there may be more to the Lady’s visit than he had first imagined.

🎻

Midnight finds Merlin creeping around the bend in the corridor that will take him to the room where the maidservant met her death.

She was found frozen stock-still, as if she’d dropped dead from fright, rumors said. It was an unnatural death. So it was only natural that whispers of sorcery followed soon after. Merlin had tried to ignore them- he really did- but he had always been a nosy child. And, unfortunately, happenings of sorcery in Camelot _do_ concern him. Merlin does knows that there couldn’t possibly be any evidence to implicate him, not when he’s only stayed at the castle for a scant few days. But the king becoming suspicious and mounting a search of the castle can’t possibly be a pleasant experience for him.

The floorboard creaks under his foot, and Merlin curses under his breath. Is there a way to conceal the sounds he makes using magic? He probably could throw something together, like that time he and Will had found a way to turn themselves half-invisible several years back, but… Merlin hadn’t been able to replicate that particular skill since. And he doesn’t much fancy experimenting in the middle of a heavily guarded castle’s corridor.

The flickering torches throw dark shadows over the walls. It gives the room a haunted atmosphere, almost as if there’s something just around the bend, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting victims. Uther had ordered the chambers guarded, upon first hearing of the murder, but it seems that they’ve decided there’s nothing worth guarding anymore. There is no-one standing outside the thick wooden doors. Merlin presses his palm against the door, suffusing his will into the cool wood, urging it to open. The lock clicks open with a faint sound.

Merlin tiptoes in, and jerks back in surprise. He isn’t the only one in the room.

Quick as thought, the shadowy figure who had been inspecting the maidservant’s prone body rights itself, and slips across the room in a flash. Merlin only wakes from his surprise when the figure brushes past him. The slight stir from his passing ruffles his neckerchief.

Merlin manages to grab a hold of the figure’s trailing cloak, but it’s to no avail; the figure- whoever he is- is obviously trained in combat. A few quick motions and he’s free, flitting across the darkening corridor like just another shadow.

All Merlin catches is a flash of silver-grey eyes, dark hair, and a swathe of pale skin. A faint brush against his magic, suppressed but still palpable, sea-brine and blinding light.

_I’ve seen this somewhere,_ Merlin thinks. Then it hits him.

The stranger at the market.

He begins running before he finishes the thought, but by the time he reaches the end of the corridor, the figure is no-where to be seen.

🎻

“You say you felt… something like starlight? The sea? Merlin, that sounds like something you should ask Gregory rather than I.”

Gregory is the castle’s resident minstrel. He also is very particular towards prose of the excessively flowery sort. Gaius arches one white brow at him, and Merlin flushes. Upset at not being believed and embarrassment flood his mind.

“I know,” Merlin insists. “But I know what I saw. Gaius, couldn’t this man be some sort of magical creature? A special sorcerer? Anything?”

Gaius hums, thoughtful. “The sea might indicate the _seiren_ and the mer-people, and starlight is often linked to tales of the fair folk… but that’s too vague to go on, Merlin. And I very much doubt there’s one of the fae out to get you in this very citadel. It sounds very far-fetched, doesn’t it?”

“Still,” Merlin grumbles. He doesn’t like not knowing things. Especially when he’s fairly confident he’s run into this mysterious figure two times already.

The stranger had been investigating (or perpetrating, how should he know?) the maidservant’s death, which is one more point for why he’s a mystery that must be solved. Gaius fixes Merlin with a stern glare.

“Don’t you go gallivanting off to gather clues,” he warns. “Do you hear me, Merlin? I know all you’ve seen is one execution. But there have been many more, as there will be. Camelot is not a safe place for your kind.”

A chill runs down Merlin’s spine. As if he’d needed to be reminded of that.

“I know, Gaius,” he says, miserable. “I know.”

🎻

Merlin would like to say those words were why he hadn’t done anything once he’d realized Lady Helen was actually a witch.

Merlin had known that from the moment the Lady had stepped up for her performance. Merlin hasn’t ever met any magic users other than him, to tell the truth. But he can and does recognize signs of magic when it’s being readied for use. He sees it every day, after all, especially in himself. Magic has a way of gathering itself like a bow being drawn, from where it had been scattered through his veins, when he _intends_ to do something. It’s a similar flow he senses that moment, weaker and more sluggish but still unmistakable- the Lady (witch)’s magic bubbling up from where it had been hidden away.

So, yes, he would like to say it was a healthy sense of self-preservation that had stayed his hand.

But actually, it’s surprise that does. Because, just as the Lady rises in the midst of polite applause, a clear, merry voice rings out-

“Oh, that does sound fabulous. But, my lords and ladies, before we are treated to the lovely Lady’s rendition of this particular song- may I suggest a quick duet to warm you all up?”

It’s the stranger from the market. Merlin almost doesn’t recognize him, but those sea-grey eyes are unmistakable. Today, he’s dressed in a fine velvet tunic over simple, dark breeches, a jeweled ring glinting on his hand. His smile is wide and easy, if a bit too practiced. Dressed like this, he cuts the very picture of young, indulgent nobility- his dark clothes and cloak from before are nowhere to be seen. His hair falls free around his shoulders, and he holds his hand-harp in his hand.

Merlin thinks he catches the barest glimpse of a gruesome network of scars on his palm, but his hand shifts, and it’s hidden from sight.

Uther scowls from his place at the high table. “And who may you be?”

Merlin knows from experience that the king does not like to be interrupted. The king’s patented scowl is also a powerful weapon, especially when the fact that the blood of thousands rest on his hand factors in. But the stranger stands utterly unfazed. His smooth, courteous bow and glib manner lends a certain grace to his movements.

“I am Maglor of the house of the Star, my lord. I am a practitioner of the arts, who has wandered far- until I heard that the Lady Helen of Mora would be performing in Camelot tonight. My good friend Lord Ulfric was kind enough to invite me, and here I am.”

Merlin knows for certain that there is no such lord in Camelot, because he had been responsible for labelling all of the place-mats to be embroidered. (It had been a small favor for one over-worked Gwen.) But Uther must have thought this Ulfric some minor lord, because he simply hums thoughtfully and gestures for the man- Maglor- to go on.

“I understand ‘tis a gross breach of protocol, my lord king,” Maglor says, voice deep and melodious and dangerously persuasive. “But I cannot help but wish for this one chance- my own skills are not too painful to the ear, I dare say. And I have always wished for a chance to play with the famed Lady.” He finishes his small speech with a graceful incline of his head towards the Lady Helen herself.

The Lady, incidentally, is donning a smile that looks more fit for the slaughter-fields than any feast-room. Merlin hangs his head, and wishes against all hope that she won’t go on some kind of murderous rampage tonight. It would be a fitting example of how unbelievably bad his own luck can get- _it can’t even have been a week since he’s come to Camelot_ \- and he wouldn’t much appreciate the demonstration.

The king surprises them all by laughing out loud. “Insolent! But entertaining, I give you that. Your life’s wish, you say? Then I bid you go ahead, and show us what we can do with that small harp of yours- but beware! Lest the Lady take your admiration for something more.”

Any other young noble of the court would have blushed. But the Maglor simply smiles and inclines his head once more.

“You are too kind, my king,” he says. “Lords, ladies.”

He _is_ rather pleasing to the eye, and Merlin catches several ladies of the court tittering amongst themselves behind opened fans. But all he can think of is _please, don’t let anything bad happen_ , as he watches Maglor make his way towards the center of the room.

He has a bad feeling, and worst of all- he has no idea what exactly it’s _for_.

🎻

Sometime during the bustle and hushed anticipation for the performance, Gwen winds her way around towards Merlin. Servants aren’t allowed to dress up for feasts, not really. But still, the nobles tend to be a lot more indulgent towards servants’ attire on feast-days, the Lady Morgana especially more so. Gwen looks like spring in her yellow skirt, hair plaited neatly down her back.

“You’re looking gorgeous,” Merlin says, because it’s the truth. He’s never been one to shy away from complimenting people, especially when they deserve it. Gwen has been nothing but sweet towards him since his first day in Camelot- unlike a certain prat he shall not name. Gwen blushes and shoves good-naturedly at him.

“Oh, don’t be silly, you. You’re looking quite dashing yourself.”

To be honest, Merlin hadn’t had the peace of mind to pick and choose; never-mind that his grand total of clothes amounts to four shirts at most. At least he has an abundance of neckerchiefs- his mother had made sure of that. Merlin surreptitiously smooths down the wrinkles in his shirt, peering down at himself. He’s dressed as he always is, in worn, sturdy boots and brown jacket. He looks up, only to find Gwen smothering a quick smile behind her open hand.

Merlin snorts, poking at her in mock affront. There’s most probably a witch on the loose, and Gwen still manages to make him laugh. That ought to say something about her character, in the very least.

“Oi! You’re laughing at me! Wait, but you- oh, Gwen, someone to impress?”

Merlin sneaks a sly glance towards the milling ladies and noblemen, gaze zeroing onto the prince. He’s golden as always, as big a bully as he is. And there’s that Maglor fellow too, quietly tuning his hand-harp with an enigmatic smile on his lips. Gwen’s eyes follow his, and she turns an impressive shade of red. She smacks him on his arm.

“Merlin! Goodness- no-one even knew he was going to perform, until just a moment ago! You’re being silly, is what you are. Now shush- I think they’re going to start.”

But Gwen needn’t have said that last bit.

Because, yes, they’ve begun, and it isn’t like anything Merlin has ever seen.

It’s a battle of magic, played out through song, and Merlin has never seen anything similar in his entire _life_. And he couldn’t have looked away for the life of him.

The Lady Helen’s song is one of destruction. Merlin can feel the ill will winding through her voice as her magic twines with her words. Merlin hears her coax the walls to crumble and fill with cobwebs. He hears her call to the listeners of her song, urging them to loosen their hold on their consciousness and succumb to sleep. It’s insidious, sickly-sweet in the way rotting fruit might be, but no less powerful for that.

But her song goes no further than her bare vicinity, because it crashes against Maglor’s song every time. Maglor’s voice is deep but clear, lilting syllables a perfect counterpoint to the Lady’s higher notes. It’s like something in him has been freed over the course of the song, because Merlin _sees_ Maglor for the first time since he’d bumped into the enigmatic man in the marketplace. Merlin feels the strength of his will, like steel fired in starlight. He feels a frightening depth of years, almost like a bottomless pit. He smells fire on metal and hears the thundering crash of the sea.

It isn’t magic as he knows it, but something somehow both similar and different. More ancient, perhaps. Merlin bites his lip, and watches.

Maglor’s expression is that of rapt concentration, fingers plucking over harp-strings like an old friend. The rest of the room titters and stands on their toes, watching the performance as if entranced. Merlin’s focus, however, lies elsewhere. The Lady Helen’s lovely face has begun to twist with ire, and her hands, clasped on top of her stomach, are clenched dangerously white.

Merlin feels her magic roil in rage. It’s like bubbles trying to escape a tightly sealed pot. _Dangerous_ , he thinks, and the soft hairs on the back of his hand stand straight up. He can’t afford to out himself in front of this crowd, that much he knows. But he isn’t sure whether he can bring himself to do nothing, and watch all these men be slaughtered like cattle. Because he can sense the dark anger in the witch’s magic, and that is surely what she plans to do.

Gwen says something again, pulling at his arm to catch his attention, but Merlin can’t bring himself to respond. Any moment now… any moment…

It all seems to happen in a flash.

The Lady suddenly cuts off in the middle of her song, striding forward towards where the king and prince sit. Her young disguise falls away from her like a layer of dust, showing an old wrinkled face and angry yellowed eyes. Her white hair flies in unruly wisps behind her as she raises her hand, concealed dagger leaving her grasp with the force of a spell behind it.

“You killed my son,” she’s saying. “A son for a son, that is only fair!”

Maglor stands from his chair in one smooth movement, almost too fast for the eye to follow. He reaches for some concealed weapon, but he won’t be fast enough; Merlin can see that much. Gwen gasps, some ladies scream, and Uther draws his sword, face pale with rage.

And then Merlin reaches out with his magic, _pulls,_ drags time to a standstill. The world fights against him, struggling against his grip like sand slipping through his fingers. But Merlin scowls, grits his teeth, and wrenches. There isn’t enough time to try anything grand. He rolls into a crouch, managing to smack the dagger off course in the nick of time.

The flow of time resumes, and Merlin grunts in pain as his shoulder hits the ground with a muffled thump. He turns, and his eyes meet Maglor’s grey ones. Maglor’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes are vaguely impressed. One elegant brow twitches upwards in a gesture of surprise.

Then the world erupts into sound.

Before he knows it, a gobsmacked prince is helping him up, the king is rewarding him with a position as the prince’s manservant (though how that’s a _reward_ Merlin shall never know), and Gwen is cheering for him on the sidelines.

_What_ , Merlin thinks, _have I done?_

🎻

Merlin catches Maglor a little ways out of the banquet hall.

The sun has long since set, and the corridor they’re in is one of the quieter ones. The only light comes from the flickering torches set in regular intervals in the wall, and there is no one but them to break the silence. Moonlight filters through the small windows and mixes with the dim light of the torches. It glints off the sculpted planes of Maglor’s face, turning his features into something mysterious, otherworldly.

Maglor’s skin feels eerily cool underneath Merlin’s sweaty grip.

“What _are_ you?” Merlin asks. Maglor’s hair hangs free now, flowing down his shoulders. It must have come loose during the whole Lady Helen-Mary Collins debacle. Maglor tilts his head like a bird. Merlin stifles a gasp as the movement exposes the tip of one ear, pale and pointed like a leaf.

Maglor’s lips turn up in a smile.

“Ah,” he says. “I’d a feeling you would have known, _pitya fion_.”

Merlin narrows his eyes, drawing his magic to the fore. “Is that a bad thing?”

Maglor laughs. “No,” he says. He extends a hand towards Merlin. This one is unmarred and pale, with long, elegant fingers. His grey eyes are warm.

“Come with me. We have much to discuss.”

.

**Quenya Words**

- _pitya:_ (Q) little, small.

- _fion:_ (Q) singular noun for _hawk_.

**Notes**

*: This particular line was inspired by a sentence in one of my all-time favorite fics, Narya_Flame’s _The Ways of Paradox_. (It’s awesome, by the way, so totally go check it out!) The specific sentence(s) can be found in Chapter 4:

‘What was it about?’

‘A world that vanished long ago.’

**Author's Note:**

> Hands up if anyone wants super-old grandfather elves calling Merlin 'little hawk'? Because I think it's adorable. xD  
> Belated aplogies for the butchered Quenya... I sort of put that phrase together from internet elvish dictionaries, and I've only got as far as pronunciation when it comes to studying that language! :0


End file.
